


3 Years Ago

by London_Halcyon



Category: Murdered: Soul Suspect
Genre: Bullying, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2020-02-04 19:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18610942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/London_Halcyon/pseuds/London_Halcyon
Summary: Julia tags along with her husband, Detective Ronan O'Connor, on a trip to Saint Benedict's in search of a possible lead for a case. What she finds there, however, is not what she expected to.Set three years before the events of the game Murdered: Soul Suspect





	1. Saint Benedict's

"Don't feel like you have to stick around. This might take a while," Ronan said, even as he held the door open for me. He could be such a gentleman at the most random moments.

I smiled my thanks. "Nonsense. I like visiting Saint Benedict's."

He followed me into the nave. "I don't want you to sit around bored and alone." He said it with humor, adding a touch of the dramatic to his words.

"I'll survive without you for a little while." I gave him a mischievous look. "And I need to make sure you're not going to run away. We are still on for tonight, aren't we?"

"Course. I don't get a refund if I cancel." The smirk on his face indicated his wording was intentional.

I narrowed my eyes at him, but couldn't get the smile to effectively leave my face. I caught his arm by the altar, spinning him around to face me directly, and took the fedora off his head, shoving it into his hands. His messy, dark hair stuck out at odd angles. Finally frowning, I reached up in an attempt to smooth it. He lightly batted my hand away, but I could see that he enjoyed the attention.

Ronan looked very out of place in the church. The nave, with its vast space, flickering candles, wooden pews, decorative tapestries, and fancy carpet, was grand and welcoming. Ronan, with his hard face, rough stubble, scarred lip, and heavy ink, was not. He made the neat, cultured atmosphere that surrounded him look fake. It was as if the warmth of the church was only an illusion, and he represented the harshness of the world outside.

He gently lifted my right hand in front of him, his fingers rubbing against my wedding ring. The candles flickered on the altar beside us. It seemed like not too long ago that we stood in this very place and said our vows.

 _Hell yeah, I do._ It was an interesting thing to invoke in church, but it was a very _Ronan_ thing to say. It hadn't mattered to me. All I had heard was the "I do." Father McCauley hadn't batted an eye either, though he was probably used to that sort of thing.

Ronan kissed my hand, sending my heart bouncing through my chest. My face grew warm with an involuntary blush. It was like when we were first dating again. The smirk stayed on his face. He knew what he was doing to me.

"You'll wait?" he asked, quite unnecessarily.

I grinned. "I'll wait forever."

He reluctantly released my hand, and we walked down the hallway to the rectory. I eyed his usual swagger thoughtfully. It was way too cocky for a place where one was supposed to be humble.  
I caught his arm again before we reached the end of the hall. "Promise me you'll try to be polite?"

"I'm not interrogating him," he muttered.

"Please?" I asked sweetly.

That humbled him. I could never figure out why. Although I felt like I wasn't anything special, he always acted like he didn't deserve me. To me, it was the other way around. He put up with a lot.

"I always am," he said at an attempt of reassurance, even though it was about as far from the truth as you could possibly get. Still, I released him.

We stepped into a corridor of the rectory. There were two doors on each side, an elevator to the left, and a waiting area to the right, but no Father McCauley.  
Ronan glanced at the watch on his right wrist. "We're not early."

"He's around here somewhere," I said. "You know how he's always busy."

Ronan glanced around the corridor, his sharp eyes noting every little detail. He had his "detective's face" on. It was a very perceptive look. For the millionth time since we first met, I wondered what he saw that I didn't. What did the world look like through his eyes? What did I?

His eyes came to rest on the waiting area, which consisted of two couches and a coffee table. An odd expression came over his face, part curiosity and part something else.

I followed his gaze, surprised to find that the corridor wasn't empty after all. A girl sat on one of the couches. She looked young, not quite into her teens. And something wasn't right. Her shoulders were slumped and her head hung, as if she was tired. Her brown hair was tangled and dirty, most of it having been ripped from the bands that held it back. Then I saw what had drawn Ronan's attention. What I had initially mistaken for more dirt was bruises and cuts on her arms and face. She held one wrist tenderly, like she was afraid to move it. She was hurt.

"Hey, kid," Ronan called, making me wince at his lack of tact. "You alright?"

The girl jerked her head up, startled. She briefly glanced around, as if she was unsure who he was talking to. She looked like someone who was either used to going unnoticed or wanted to go unnoticed. Possibly both.

"Fine," she said gruffly once she had determined that she was indeed the one being spoken to. She lowered her head again, allowing her bangs to fall over her eyes. The message was clear: _I don't want to talk._

Ronan crossed his arms. "Right."

The girl subtly looked at us from under her bangs. With a cop for a brother and an ex-con detective for a husband, I recognized threat assessment when I saw it. Her eyes passed right over me (which I took as an insult) and lingered on Ronan. No doubt she saw the badge and holstered gun on his belt and the tattoos visible on his arms and neck. I really should've told him to cover up before coming here.

Ronan took a step toward her, and she lifted her head to look him right in the eyes. There was a glint in her eyes that was somehow both challenging and warning. _Don't you dare come closer._ She had obviously found him to be a threat.

I was amazed by the nerve of the girl. No one challenged Ronan like that, not even bigger men. Here she was, less than half his size and looking at him like he was a mangy mutt that had decided to approach her. I didn't know whether to respect her or fear for her life.

I casually grabbed Ronan's arm to keep him from returning the challenge. The last thing I needed was for him to be provoked by a bit of sass. He quietly huffed and looked away.

"I'm coming, me child," came the voice preceding Father McCauley. The priest emerged from the door to the right, next to the waiting area. "Forgive me. I need to restock—" He stopped short at the sight of me and Ronan (or maybe just Ronan, since I appeared to be invisible today) and quickly smoothed his complicated expression into something more pleasant.

"Hello, Father," I greeted. Ronan nodded politely.

"Oh. Oh, yes, hello," Father McCauley said, looking a bit overwhelmed. "I'm sorry. The time got away from me. I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"We just arrived," I said.

"Not too bad then. I don't mean to keep you from your work, but do you mind waiting just a little longer? I need to..." The priest trailed off, gesturing with a white, rectangular box in his hands. It had a green cross on it.

I glanced at the girl, who was staring at the ground again. I had professed my patience, but I doubted Ronan had the same tolerance. Plus, my sense of curiosity (and moral righteousness; I'm not that self-centered) was eating at me.

"I can take care of that, if you like, Father," I said pleasantly. The girl looked alarmed, showing that she was still clearly paying attention.

Father McCauley hesitated, looking uncertain. This surprised me. He knew me and what I did. I worked with kids all the time. What was different about this girl?

"I don't mean to sound callous," Ronan said, "but I'm kinda pressed for time." Well, at least he added the callous part.

Father McCauley looked at me and then nodded, moving to stand in front of the girl. "Joy," he said kindly, "do you mind if Ms. O'Connor takes care of you?" _Ms._ , not _Mrs._ It sounded less intimidating that way.

The girl's light-colored eyes flicked up and down my body. It was a quick gesture, easily missed, but I got the feeling of being evaluated. "No, Father," she murmured. I suspected this answer was less because of what she had found and more because she wasn't going to disobey the priest.

Father McCauley passed me the first aid kit and briefly put a hand on her shoulder before turning to Ronan. "Right this way," he said politely, and the two men moved off down the corridor.

The girl eyed me warily, at the same time avoiding eye contact. She really didn't trust other people, but given her current state, it wasn't hard to guess why.

I kneeled in front of her so that I was more at her level and smiled in a friendly way. "Hi. Joy, right?" She nodded. I saw the irony in this, but still said, "That's a nice name. I'm Julia."

The girl nodded again, this time giving me a look that suggested she knew I saw the irony in it because everybody did.

"Why don't you come with me, and we can get you cleaned up?" I gestured to the first door to the left, a bathroom, and stood back to allow her to get up.

She moved slowly, like her joints were made of rust. Her jaw was clenched, and she held her limp wrist against her ribs. _Her ribs._ That was another thing I needed to look at. She was obviously in a lot of pain, but I was pretty sure that if I tried to help her, then I would get the same response she gave Ronan.

Once on her feet, she crossed the corridor much more quickly, nearly disguising a limp. It occurred to me that she had probably walked to the church from wherever she had come from. It was doubtful she had gotten a ride, which meant she had either taken the road or the stairs up. The fact that she had gotten up the hill was a miracle in itself.

I closed the door to the bathroom as she sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. There was already a first aid kit open on the counter, though its contents were lacking. I opened the kit in my hands. This one was well-stocked. It held different sized bandages, cold packs, bottles of antiseptic, disposable syringes, and packets and vials of other things with print too small to read. Knowing Father McCauley, I wouldn't have been surprised if there were lidocaine and a suture kit in there.

I gestured for her to sit sideways, so I could get behind her. I gently tugged the rest of her hair free and pulled it back in a simple ponytail, out of the way. Then I kneeled before her again.

"And how old are you?" I asked.

"Twelve." A quiet answer. Still no eye contact.

"Ah, I guess I shouldn't treat you like a kid then."

She looked at me impatiently. "Is Father McCauley in trouble?" The question was unexpected, right to the point.

"Why do you ask?"

"Your husband's a cop."

This took me by surprise. "You noticed?" I was less surprised by the fact that she had noticed Ronan was a cop than by the fact that she had noticed we were married. Ronan was obviously law enforcement, even if he was a plainclothes cop. But we were obviously here for business, not pleasure.

Irritation flashed across her face. "Badge, gun, ring," she said tersely.

"Yes, but how'd you know we're married to each other?" I asked patiently. I was curious to know if it was just a lucky guess.

She shrugged. "Lucky guess." So that meant it wasn't just luck then.

"No, he's not in trouble," I said. "But he might be able to tell us about the bad guy."

I carefully lifted her injured wrist. There was gravel imbedded in her palm. "Can you move it?" She managed to, but winced as she did so. I lightly pressed on certain places, getting the occasional other wince, but no cry or complaint. "Looks just sprained." I wiped her palm clean and began to tightly wrap the wrist. While doing so, I decided to take a chance. "How did this happen?"

She hesitated. "Fell down the stairs," she mumbled.

"Really?" I asked, as if I didn't know it was a lie. "How clumsy of you."

Another flash of irritation. She didn't like the idea of it being her fault.

I finished with her wrist and grabbed another wipe to clean the dirt off her face. She closed her eyes as if to protect them from my fingers, but it was probably just to avoid looking at me. As I brushed her bangs to the side, I noticed sticky blood near her hair. There was a big red gash on her forehead, the edges of it already turning purple.

"That's a doozy," I said. "Does your head hurt at all?"

She shrugged, but I didn't know of anything I could do. I didn't have much knowledge of concussions. Father McCauley would have to double check my work later, although what she probably needed was to go to a hospital.

"This might sting a little," I warned. She flinched once, but I got no other reaction as I began to clean the wound. "You're very tough, you know that?" No response. I found the cut wasn't as deep I thought. It didn't look like it needed stitches.

I was putting a butterfly on it when she said, "A kid threw a rock."

I waited for her to say more before I realized she was waiting for a sign to continue. "Oh?" I said, because I couldn't think of anything better to say.

"A kid threw a rock, and bunch of them started shouting mean things." Her voice was dull, detached. "I started saying mean things back, and they..." She trailed off, but what had happened next was obvious.

I was somewhat honored by this show of confidence. "Where was this?" I asked gently.

"School."

I moved on to clean the cuts on her arms, feeling slightly unsettled. She wasn't a small girl, but she was slight. Even if she had provoked it, to be outnumbered like that... "That was hardly fair."  
She shrugged again and spoke in the same flat voice. "They think I'm creepy."

"That's not a very good reason," I said. "I would hope they at least got in trouble."

"No. The teachers think I'm creepy too. Even if they don't say it."

First shock, then anger roiled inside me. I could understand not liking a person, but attacking a girl just because you held a negative opinion about her was the lowest of the low. And turning a blind eye to what was obviously wrong? Classic injustice. "Unbelievable," I muttered.

"Not really." Something had changed in her tone. It sounded...lighter. "I'm used to it."

I glanced up at her face. She had opened her eyes and was looking at me like she found my anger amusing. For the first time, I noticed that her eyes were not blue or green like I had first thought. They were silver. Not gray, but pure silver.

"That's not something you should have to get used to."

Another shrug. "Maybe. But it's not like I can do anything about it. It's not my fault I'm different. They won't let me fit in; I deal with it. Simple as that."

 _Yes, but simple isn't the same as easy. And easier said than done,_ I thought. The cruelty of the world was depressingly unsurprising to me, but to be unfazed by it was a much harder concept for me to swallow. Ronan always said there was a difference between being numb and being unfeeling. There may be less of a shock after a while, but that doesn't mean you're unaffected. I've never needed to ask which one he is. He still won't talk much about his childhood. Even Rex, with his tendency to completely clam up, could never hide from me when something was upsetting him.

I moved my hands near the bottom of her shirt, not yet touching her. "Is it alright if I...?" She made a noise in her throat, which I interpreted as assent, and I lifted her shirt. There was no obvious bruising or swelling on the pale skin of her stomach and sides. I lightly touched my fingers to her ribs. She recoiled, baring her teeth. "Did that hurt?" I asked.

Her cheeks faintly flushed. "No. Your hands are cold."

I couldn't keep myself from smiling, causing her blush to deepen. "Sorry," I said, as I tucked my fingers against my own body. After a few seconds, I tried pressing on her ribs again. I firmly pushed down, testing different places. I watched her face as I did so, looking for any indication of pain. She tilted her chin up, making it harder to see the blinking of her eyes. "I'm no doctor," I said, "but I don't think they're broken. You're going to have a beautiful bruise tomorrow though." I touched a part of her side for emphasis, making her wince. It made me feel bad, but she wasn't helping by being tough. "I can still try to wrap them, if you want."

She sharply looked down at me. "You're _not_ a doctor?" she asked slowly. It wasn't a no, so I grabbed another roll of bandage and started wrapping anyway. She didn't protest.

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said. "Better you know now, I have no official medical training."

"So it's alright if I say how much I hate doctors?" she joked. It was nice to hear some more...humanness in her voice. More vivacity.

I laughed. "Go ahead. I hate them too." I had seen enough of doctors and shrinks in my life. I knew they were only trying to help, but one gets tired of having someone else in their head.

"How do you know how to do this?" she asked curiously.

"It's required when you live in a family of cops," I said with humor. "My brother and husband think they're invincible." I gave her a sly look, lowering my voice to a mock whisper. "They don't know that I make them so."

For a heartbeat, she grinned, but it was quickly replaced by an uncertain expression. "Why are you helping me?"

I was slightly taken aback by the question before I realized I wasn't sure how to answer it. "I like helping people," I said simply.

"You shouldn't have to help me," she grumbled. "I shouldn't have to rely on others. I need to learn how to take care of myself."

"There's no need to grow up that quickly," I said warily.

"Yes, there is," she said darkly. There was no further elaboration. It occurred to me that it was possible bullying wasn't her only problem.

The wrapping began to unravel, and I blew out a breath as I struggled to fix it. I was quiet as I thought for a moment. "My parents died when I was still a girl," I said finally. "Not long before the accident, I complained to my mother about my brother being overprotective. She said, 'Julia, Javier's always going to try to take care of you, but he forgets to look after himself. That's why you have to be the one to take care of him.'"

I tried to do an impression of my mother, but I got no reaction for my efforts. I continued. "So, yeah, things got tough, but my brother and I helped each other out, and we got through it. Now, I have two men in my life that are so protective of me it's ridiculous. They're like two mother hens. Yet the second I try to return the favor—the second I try to take care of them, they clam up. They just won't have it."

I paused for a moment as I frowned at my bandaging job. Something wasn't right; it looked awkward. Exasperated, I started to redo it again. "But I won't have it either. This is a mutual relationship. I'm not some damsel in distress. So, every time this happens, I say to them, 'If you won't let me help you, you can't help me.' Of course, this leads to lots of arguing, but they always give in eventually. In the end, everyone's usually better off because of it."

I realized I was rambling and clarified, "You see where I'm going with this? Bad things happen, even when you're young. But if you have someone to help you through it, then everything will be much easier. There's nothing wrong with relying on someone, especially if they rely on you too."

I finished binding her ribs. Finally satisfied, I started to secure the bandaging and glanced up at her face. Her head was turned to the side, away from me, and her lips were parted slightly. Her eyes were half closed, but not closed enough to hide that they were moist. This was not the reaction I had been expecting.  
Alarmed, I asked, "What's wrong? It's not too tight, is it?"

She shook her head and put her good hand to her face as if trying to force the tears back in. "I don't want my mom to see me like this," she said, her voice cracking.

I lowered her shirt, and she tucked her injured hand against her ribs again. I got the impression she was bracing herself against whatever lived inside.

I shifted my position. My knees hurt from kneeling on the hard tile floor. "And why is that?" I asked softly. "Surely you won't get in trouble?" I had heard of parents like that. When the kids lose something or are late getting home, they get in trouble even if it wasn't their fault.

She shook her head again, her lower lip quivering. "She always blames herself. She thinks that everything that happens to me is her fault." Her voice wavered, but remained surprisingly steady.

I felt a surge of respect for her. She gets beaten up and stays perfectly calm about it, but she realizes she might worry her mom and then becomes upset. It was as admirable as it was heart wrenching.

Then her composure slipped. "She's gonna blame herself and feel miserable and then I'm gonna have to change schools again!" she cried.

"Sh sh shh," I hushed without meaning to, her rising pitch having caused me to react.

"I can't go back," she said, swiping repeatedly at her face. "I don't wanna make her upset."

I stood up, causing my knees to protest to the movement after having been in one position for so long. I grabbed a tissue from a box on the sink counter and passed it to her. Like with her hand, she simply pressed it to her face.

"You mom obviously loves you," I said gently. "I think it would hurt her more if you didn't go back. Better she know you're alive and bruised than think—" I broke off, deciding I hadn't picked the best choice of words.

She was quiet for a moment, her chest rising and falling with an unnatural evenness that suggested it was controlled. Finally, she dabbed her eyes. "Yeah, I know." Her voice was back to normal. She shook her head, sniffing once. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't do this." And just like that it was over. Her eyes were neither red nor swollen, as if nothing had happened. She wouldn't break down completely in front of me. That would come later.

"Don't apologize," I said. "It's okay to just cry it out sometimes." If only she knew what my lows were like...

"Not for me," she muttered. "It lets the demons in."

I hadn't heard of that before. It didn't sound like a Catholic thing, and it definitely wasn't a Father McCauley thing. "Who told you that?"

She looked irritated, but I didn't think it was directed at me. "Does it matter? It's true."

I paused as I figured out my next sentence. "Well, I don't know about that. But what if I told you it also lets the demons out?"

She didn't answer and just sniffed again, turning her face back away. I carefully tugged her injured wrist away from her body like I wanted to check my work. Really I just wanted to give the impression I was doing something besides kneeling in awkward silence without a clue about what to say.

"I guess I need to find a way to repay you. You know, since I had to rely on you." She had probably meant to say it lightly, but it came out sounding pitiful instead.

"Don't worry," I said with a little more success at keeping my tone light. "You already have." And I meant it. When she didn't respond, I asked, "Do you have someone else you rely on? Besides your mom?"

"I rely on Father McCauley," she said quietly. "He looks after me sometimes. And he treats me normally."

I hummed a noise of assent. "Father McCauley's a good man. A real saint. Makes you feel lucky just to know him."

"Yeah," she agreed. Her eyes shone with pride. 

I noticed that I had missed a smudge of dirt on her cheek. "Eh, hold still," I said as I rubbed at it with my thumb. She wrinkled her nose, though the gesture was playfully exaggerated. "You have beautiful eyes," I admired.

She gave me a skeptical look before realizing I was serious. "Thanks," she murmured, ducking her head shyly. Not used to compliments then.

I slapped my hands against my thighs in a gesture of finality. "Okay. I think that's that. If anything else hurts or if any limbs are about to fall off, please tell me now."

I was rewarded with a flash of teeth. "Nope."

"Then I'm packing this up." I frowned at the now severely unorganized first aid kit. "Er, I will try packing this up."

As I struggled to figure out how to get the lid to close, she said meekly, "Thanks for helping me. And for just...talking."

After a few tries and some reorganization, I finally forced the lid down with a snap. "I enjoyed it." Then I pretended to glance around the bathroom. "Though this is the weirdest confessional I've ever been in."

She laughed. I stood up and put the kit on the counter next to the other one. Father McCauley would know what to do with it.

"Do you come here...er, to the church often?" she asked, catching herself before I could tease her.

"Every Sunday," I said cheerfully. "Maybe I'll see you around."

She grinned. "Maybe."

I opened the door and walked out of the bathroom just as Father McCauley and Ronan were leaving the room at the far end of the corridor. "...rry I couldn't have been of more help," the priest was saying.

"Oh, I think you gave me more info than you know," Ronan responded. He caught sight of me and smiled. I smiled back. Father McCauley pleasantly nodded a greeting.

Joy came up beside me and frowned, causing Ronan to frown as well. They eyed each other with matching expressions of distrust. They looked like the kind of pair that would either get along really well or not at all.

When the two men reached us, she and Ronan switched sides. Father McCauley put a hand on her shoulder while Ronan slipped a hand into mine. "We should get going," Ronan said politely.

"It was nice seeing you, Father." I turned to Joy. "And you too."

The smile quickly returned to her face. "Bye."

"Have a pleasant evening," Father McCauley said.

Hand in hand, Ronan and I walked back down the hallway away from the rectory. When we were back in the empty nave, I asked slyly, "What was with the dominance challenge? She's twelve."

"Hey, I didn't challenge her," he pretended to huff. "Did you have fun?"

"I wouldn't call it fun, but it was nice."

He held the front door open for me again. So he was in extra polite mode today. That was a bonus.

I fell silent as I thought for a moment. I chewed on my lip. I would probably get in trouble for this, but... "What do you think," I asked slowly, "about having children?"

Ronan nearly tripped down the building's front steps. He gave me such a sharp look of alarm that I quickly backpedalled. "Not anytime soon!" I clarified. "But in the future."

He was quiet for so long that I was afraid he wouldn't answer. "Is that even possible?" he asked uncertainly. "You're bipolar. Is that genetic?" Well, it wasn't a no. When it came to Ronan, that really meant something. I just didn't know what.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "Why add to the population when there are hundreds of kids without parents already? We could foster or adopt."

He hesitated again. "But you already work with kids. Do you really need one at home?" It still wasn't a firm no, but he was definitely headed in that direction.

"This would be a different relationship," I said patiently. "One I wouldn't mind experiencing."

"You make it sound temporary," he grumbled. "Like you have no chance of messing up." And there was the root of the problem.

I didn't press. That wasn't somewhere either of us wanted to go right now. Instead, I kissed his rough cheek. "Just think about it," I said softly.

He sighed. "Fine." Still not a no. Maybe there was hope after all.

There was a buzzing sound, and Ronan pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Rex," he said gruffly.

"Take it," I encouraged.

He looked at me in surprise. "You sure?"

"I'll meet you at the restaurant if I have to. Just don't be late," I said firmly.

"You'll wait?" he asked with a smirk.

I grinned. "Forever."

 


	2. That Night...

_That night, Julia O'Connor was stabbed in a restaurant alleyway while trying to break up an argument. She died a few minutes later. A year after that, Joy Foster ran away from home._


End file.
